


The Constable and the Mad Inventor

by clowncartardis



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Human, F/F, Slow Burn, constable!yaz, inventor!doctor, mentions of intimate partner violence but it's brief unseen and there are no serious consequences, yaz is a CONSTABLE and i will say that as many times as i possibly can
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-02-23 14:15:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23479504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clowncartardis/pseuds/clowncartardis
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan
Comments: 33
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter 1

There’s an hour left of her shift and all Yaz can think of is the Chinese takeaway she’s going to pick up on the way home. It’s been a horrible day—hot, humid, and full of mardy civilians with an endless number of pointless complaints—and all Yaz wants is for nothing interesting to happen for the next 58 minutes. Then she can get the largest container of spicy noodles the shop sells, shut her door, and not talk to anyone until her next shift starts.

She loves being a full, non-probationary officer, she does. It’s just… sometimes, on days like today, she can’t wait to get done with it.

Her phone buzzes.

“Now then, Sergeant,” she answers. “What can I do you for?”

“What’s your schedule, Yaz?”

“Working ‘til 9, sir,” Yaz replies. She stretches. Her dashboard clock taunts her. _8:04._

“Got time for one more house call?” He asks.

Yaz sighs. It’s her fifth today. The heat is getting to everybody. If she needs to calm down one more landlord-tenant dispute about an blown fuse from another indoor fan, she’s going to—

“Yeah, a’course.”

“You’re the best, Yaz,” Sergeant Sunder says. “It’s a flat off of Mulberry and Stone; I’ll send you the address. Neighbor called in, says she heard some shouting an’ crashing. Finish up quick. Vending just restocked and Reggie is going to drink all the Lucozade Zero.”

Yaz perks up. “What flavor?”

“Pink.”

“Ugh. Stop him! That’s my favorite, and we never get that one.”

“I’ll put one on your desk. Texting you the address… now.”

“Ta,” Yaz says, glancing at her phone. It’s only a ten minute drive _. 8:06._ It’ll be quick. No problems at all.

The tower block is nice. More upscale than hers. There’s flowers out front, reserved parking, a lift even. The walkways have been cleaned and each door looks freshly painted.

It’s nicer than a lot of the places she goes.

Flat 313 even has a little sign on the door that says _Home Sweet Home._

Corny, Yaz thinks as she raps on the door. She can’t hear anything suspicious from outside.

“Hello?” It’s a man’s voice, surprised and sharp.

“Police, sir,” Yaz says, tugging on her neon vest. “Got a noise complaint. Care to answer a few questions for me?”

There’s a scrape and a click and then the door opens to reveal an ordinary-looking man. He’s got messy brown hair and looks to be about 30. His band t-shirt is tucked awkwardly into his plaid pyjama pants, with a cardigan over top. Yaz wonders if there’s a red mark on his neck, but he moves before she can get a good look.

“I’m Constable Khan,” Yaz says. She cranes her neck to look into the flat. It’s small and neat. Nothing out of the ordinary. An IKEA couch with matching chairs, a dining room table with tea set for two, an electric piano in the corner. A collection of glass figurines on a full bookshelf. It’s cosy.

“You are?” Yaz squints at the man when he doesn’t respond.

“Conner,” he says, shifting his weight from one foot to the next. “Conner Ashton.”

Yaz nods and makes a note in her phone.

“What was going on here ‘bout an hour ago?”

“My fiancée and I were making dinner,” Conner replies.

“Her name?”

“Marjorie Sutton,” Conner says.

“Where’s she now?”

“In the bath,” Conner replies. He chews his bottom lip.

“But tea’s all set up,” Yaz points out.

Conner shrugs. “We’ll finish when she’s done. Do you have any more questions? I’m in the middle of a big project, and if don’t turn it in soon...”

Yaz looks around. Looks at Conner, who’s playing with the edge of his sweater. Looks at the empty tea set. Looks at the vacant but neat room.

Looks at her watch. _8:25._

“I’ll leave you my number in case you need anything in the future,” Yaz says, pulling out her card and handing it to Conner. “Sorry to bother you this time of night.”

He nods.

“Whose figurines are those?” Yaz asks, inclining her head towards the bookshelf. They’re quite striking, even in the dim light.

“Marjorie’s,” Conner grins sheepishly. “She loves a bit of blown glass.”

Yaz says goodbye, typing up the rest of her field notes on the lift ride down. There’s a niggling feeling that something is off, but she checked the place out. It’s fine. The neighbor must have left the telly on. Happens all the time.

_8:33._

She can totally make it back to the station, finish submitting her paperwork, and get her takeaway within the hour.

Later that night, Yaz is woken from a sound sleep by the shrill sound of her phone. Only four people can call her this time of night, and three of them are in the flat with her.

“Sergeant?” She mumbles, sleep-clumsy.

“Khan,” the sergeant’s voice is strained. “You need to come ‘round to the station now. That last call you went on. Tell me about it.”

Yaz presses her face into her pillow.

“The neighbor thought they heard sommat?” Yaz says. “Nice flat, awkward bloke. Thought it were fine.”

“Did you meet the fiancée?”

“No,” Yaz says, rubbing her face. She glances at her bedside clock, its letters glowing red in the pitch darkness of her room.

_3:49._

“What’s the matter, sir?”

“Marjorie Sutton was just rushed to hospital,” Sergeant Sunder says. Yaz is immediately awake, as if plunged into an ice bath. She fumbles for her trainers.

“What?”

“I’ll tell you at the station,” Sergeant Sunder says. “Get here as soon as you can.”

“Yessir.”

Yaz smells her clothes from the day before and decides they are acceptable, ties her hair in a messy bun, and scribbles a quick note to her parents. She is out the door and speeding to the station within five minutes.

The police station early in the morning feels fake; a space removed from its proper context. Yaz squints against the fluorescents, their lights harsh against her sleep-sensitive eyes.

Unlike normal, the on-duty officers are awake and alert, cradling strong cups of coffee in styrofoam cups. They stare at her when she barrels in, pulse roaring in her ears. _Last night’s noodles were a big mistake,_ Yaz thinks as she starts to taste them again in her mouth. She looks for Sergeant Sunder, who visibly sighs in relief when he sees her. He waves her over.

“What happened?” Yaz asks. “What happened to Marjorie?”

The sergeant purses his lips. “I would have done the same thing in your position, Yaz.”

His words are meant to be reassuring, but they do the opposite. 

“Sergeant Sunder,” Yaz says, her voice tight. “What happened?”

“Marjorie’s sister called us a few hours after you went ‘round,” the Sergeant says. “Says she got a text from her sister asking for help, that Conner were cross about something and threatening to hurt her.”

“No.”

Yaz’s knees give out and she collapses into a chair.

“Mackie found her in the bedroom,” the sergeant says thickly. “I hate to ask this, Yaz, but are you sure you didn’t see anything out of the ordinary when you were there?”

“No.” Yaz’s throat closes up. “No, I don’t think so. They were set for tea, he said she was in the bath—nowt looked wrong enough I needed to press.”

_I just wanted to go home._

There’s a gentle pressure on her shoulder as Sergeant Sunder rests his hand there. It’s meant to comfort her, but now she feels trapped. She fights the urge to shrug him off.

“You’re bound to be asked that a lot in the coming days,” the sergeant says. “I would have done the same thing, honest.”

“You said Marjorie is in hospital,” Yaz looks up at her sergeant. She turns her eyes upward, to the oatmeal-gray ceiling, willing her tears not to fall. “Will she be alright?”

“No way of knowing,” the sergeant says. “She’s in rough shape. Don’t know how long she was out for while Mack got there. The doctors are doing their best to get her right.”

Before she can stop it, before she can think about _professionalism_ and _workplace decorum_ , Yaz’s face crumples and she begins to cry.

\---------------------------------------------

Yaz sits at her desk, twisting a yellow gum wrapper back and forth between her fingers. The thick material of her uniform is too tight and too warm, despite the overly air-conditioned precinct.

“Heard you did good today,” Sergeant Sunder says, shuffling to rest gently against her desk. Yaz twists the wrapper harder.

“‘T’was simple, really,” she says. “Just a drunk student who got locked outside his flat. Waited with him while the locksmith came so he wouldn’t hurt himself. He was going on about breaking in his window, but he just wanted a nap.”

Waiting with a drunk uni student on his front steps isn’t some great accomplishment.

The sergeant smiles. “It’s good to have you out in the field again, Yaz.”

Yaz nods, chewing on the inside of her cheek. Months of paperwork, some additional training, some time off for holiday, and they’re finally letting her work with civilians again. It’s like being a probationer again.

She’d sweat straight through her uniform, driving to that house earlier. She was in desperate need of a shower. Waiting with the student, talking him down from doing sommat rash—all things that would have thrilled her a year ago—just made her throat close up and her head pound.

“I have a friend who works in HMIC,” Sergeant Sunder says gently. “I can put a call in. You’re too smart to be shackled like this, Yaz.”

Yaz stiffens and snaps her gum wrapper in half. “I’m not going to be no snitch.”

“Inspectorates do a vital service,” the sergeant corrects her. “The commute isn’t bad, and the pay isn’t neither. You’d be doing good work. You’d warm up to it.”

Yaz frowns up at him. “I became police to help people, not police my coworkers.”

Sergeant Sunder holds his hands up in defeat, backing away from her desk. “The offer stands, Yaz. Any time.”

Yaz exhales sharply.

“Let me know the next call that comes in,” she calls after him. “Don’t want Ingrid to bungle it up.”

Sergeant Sunder smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Forty minutes later and Yaz is heading out to the warehouse district. Before she was born, it was the pride of Sheffield steel, and since her childhood people have been trying and failing to build luxury out of its ruin. She hates it out here—it gives her the creeps, especially after dark. This alleyway is dingy and dank, with oil-slick puddles and crushed cigarettes strewn haphazardly along the path. One street over is a well-light neighborhood with a newly-built public tower block, but this street looks like it hasn’t been touched since the mid-2000s.

There’s a deafening buzz from one of the warehouses that can only be the source of the complaint. It’s like a vexed lawnmower. She marches over, her boots making a wet slapping noise against the pavement.

“Oi!” She yells, banging on the half-rusted metal door. “Oi, open up! Police!”

The buzzing continues. Is it getting louder?

She braces herself and rams the door, but it remains standing like a dutiful soldier. Yaz grits her teeth and throws herself at it again, before resigning herself to waiting until the droning stops.

The motor cuts out all at once and Yaz resumes her banging.

“Open up!” She yells, the side of her fist making a satisfying thunk against the metal door.

All is silent for a tick. Can the person inside hear her? Is she being ignored? What does she do if there’s an emergency?

There’s a metallic groan as the warehouse door comes apart, revealing a slim figure in a navy blue jumpsuit with a welding mask pushed up around her eyes. She smiles disarmingly bright at Yaz, her eyes flitting to the neon yellow of her vest and the numbers on her lapel.

“Constable,” the woman says. “What can I do you for?”

“A neighbor in the back row called in a noise complaint,” Yaz says. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

The woman shakes her head, dislodging the welding mask. She laughs a little at herself and takes off the mask, tucking it under her arm. Her chin-length blond hair sticks to her forehead, dampened by sweat.

“Nah,” she says, “must’ve lost track of the time. Oh, no. Is it late? I hope it’s not late.”

“After 10, madam,” Yaz replies.

The woman winces, mouthing sorry at Yaz and offering her a pained smile.

Yaz smiles back, hopping a little on the balls of her feet. “I won’t give you a citation, but please be more mindful of your neighbors for the future.”

The woman perks up, a delighted smile spreading across her face.

“Brilliant! Thank you, Constable! Don’t want any citations my first week here—that’d be off to an unlucky start, and I want all the luck I can get. I don’t know if I believe in luck, but that don’t hurt no one, and citations are rubbish! Will have to remember only to run the chop saw when it’s daylight out...”

She speaks like her thoughts come three at a time, all fighting each other to be heard.

“Are you a mad scientist?” The words are out before Yaz can stop them. The woman before her is proper enigmatic.

The woman’s laugh is melodic. She runs a dingy, leather glove-covered hand through her hair, which causes it to stick out at odd angles.

“No, Constable,” she says, deep lines of amusement appearing around her eyes. “A mad _inventor_.”

“Oh,” Yaz says, eyebrows furrowing. The distinction is lost on her, but the full intensity of the woman’s gaze makes her throat close. Is she staring into her soul or sommat? The inventor holds her gaze, unblinking, her hazel eyes soft and bemused.

“I best be off, then,” Yaz stutters. “Uh, bye.”

“Take care, Constable,” the woman says, leaning out of the doorframe as Yaz backpedals. “Thank you again, ‘bout the citation. Really don’t want to deal with the bureaucracy; it’s _incredibly_ bothersome...”

The mad inventor watches Yaz depart, her eyes on her back making Yaz’s neck hairs prickle. As soon as she is around the corner, a shiver overtakes her.

_Bloody hell, what the fuck was that?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE thank you to ActuallyMe for keeping me afloat, answering questions every 4 seconds about BrE, and being an all around good friend

“Post is in,” Sonya says, barging through the front door. She flips rapidly through the collection of letters and flings a thick envelope at Yaz. 

“Oi,” Yaz responds, flinging it back at her. “Hand it over next time.”

Sonya rolls her eyes and reaches over to grab a slice of toast off of Yaz’s plate. 

“ _Oi_ ,” Yaz yelps. “I’m _eating_ that!” 

“Girls,” their father sighs from the living room. “Be kind to each other.” 

Yaz shoots Sonya a dirty look, who shoots her one in reply. Disgruntled, Yaz picks up the discarded letter. It’s heavy and glossy red, with her name written in gold. 

_Brilliant_. Another bloody invitation. Yaz sighs and pries open the envelope. A collection of cards slide onto the table. 

“Oh,” Yaz’s mum gasps when she sees the invitation. “Who’s that for?”

Yaz squints at one of the cards. 

“Liba Sahni,” she replies. 

“Who’s that?” Sonya asks, moving to steal the second piece of toast. Yaz swats her hand away. 

“Mate from school. Weren’t particularly close. Reckon I'm on the B list.” 

“It’s still nice to be invited,” her mum says. “Do you have a dress?”

Yaz scowls. “Who says I’m going to this?”

“It’s a _wedding_ , Yaz,” her mum says, eyes soft and a little sad. “Don’t you want to celebrate with an old classmate?”

Yaz stuffs the invitation back into the envelope, suddenly a bit queasy. “I don’t know these people. I haven’t seen Liba in years.”

It’s the third wedding invitation in six months. It’s excessive. She’s only twenty. What’s the rush to get married? She hates it. _Hates_ it. Hates getting dressed up to watch a boring ceremony. Hates being fake-nice to people she doesn’t know. Hates answering questions about her personal life and feeling the transparent judgement when she doesn’t live up to some stranger’s expectations. 

“It’s okay, Yaz,” Sonya says. “You can go solo. You’re a modern woman. A _career_ woman.” 

“Shut up,” Yaz huffs. “You’re just jealous ‘cause I’ve a proper career.”

“And I’ve got actual mates,” Sonya says, shaking her phone. 

“I have loads of mates I could take if I wanted to,” Yaz frowns. Sonya’s hand darts out and steals the second piece of toast. “You don’t know my life.” 

“Yeah? Who’d you go with?” 

“Like I’d tell you.” 

“Regardless,” Yaz’s mum interrupts their banter, brushing Yaz’s hair from her shoulder and bending down to kiss the top of her head. “You should consider going. Let me know if you need a dress.” 

“I make a paycheck now, Mum,” Yaz mumbles, wiggling out from her mother’s warm touch. She goes to clear her plate. 

“You know we support you,” her mum says softly, resting a hand on Yaz’s arm. “Whatever decisions you make in life. I know the last few months have been tough on you, even if you don’t want us to know why.” 

Yaz looks down at the edge of the counter, tracing the corner where pale wood meets turquoise paint.

“It’s okay to want a different life,” her mum continues. “There are so many ways you can be happy, Yasmin.” 

“I’m happy now, mum,” Yaz says, shrugging her off. “I’ve got work in an hour. I’ll be home late.” 

She turns so she doesn’t need to see the look on her mum’s face, and so her mum can’t see the look on hers. Why do her and Dad _say_ stuff like that? Can’t they just be proud of her? Her parents don’t understand her—haven’t since she were a kid. 

Yaz is _fine_ , honestly. Her mum needn’t be concerned. 

* * *

Her counsellor’s office is nondescript; a dull office in a building full of dull offices. It smells like fake lemons inside. 

At least her counsellor is nice, though. 

She could’ve been stuck with a mean one. 

“Yaz,” her counsellor, Maria, says, leaning forward in her chair. She’s wearing magenta lipstick today: overbright and smudged. 

“Yeah?” Yaz replies, looking up from where she’d been playing with a loose string on her favourite red shirt. 

“I asked you a question,” Maria reminds her.

“I were thinking,” Yaz mumbles. 

“The Sutton case,” Maria says gently. “How is it going?” 

Yaz bites the inside of her cheek, searching for the right words.

“Marjorie’s still in hospital,” Yaz states, her voice measured and strange. “In a, er, a medically induced coma.” 

Maria _tsks_. “How long’s it been, now?” 

“Three months, nearly four.” 

Yaz twists the string around her index finger. 

“Have you been to visit her again?” 

Yaz winces, breaking off the string at its source. Her fingertip is white and swollen. 

“Last week, yeah,” she admits. “Went ‘round right before visiting hours were over. She looks better than last time.” 

“That’s good, isn’t it?” 

Yaz unwinds the string and winds it around her other index finger. “She’s missing her life, though. Four months gone.” 

She glances up at Maria, who’s watching her, _observing_ her. Yaz bristles. 

“It’s a tragedy,” Maria states.

Yaz clenches her fists. “An avoidable one.” 

“You don’t know that,” Maria counters. 

“I were there,” Yaz states. “I could’ve done something, were I not so eager to go home.” 

“Did anything look out of the ordinary, besides the tea?” Maria asks. They’ve had this conversation many times over, every week for nearly four months. 

Yaz deflates. She knows her lines. “No.”

They’re silent for a bit. Yaz winds the string around her left thumb without looking at it, tapping at the pad once it starts to go numb. 

“Something is still bothering you,” Maria mentions, scribbling something in her notebook. Yaz nods and frees her thumb. She tucks her hands under her thighs and rocks gently back and forth. 

“Marjorie collects glass things,” she admits after a tick. “Little figurines, dogs ‘n cats ‘n such. Noticed her collection the night I were there. It’s proper impressive.” 

Maria stares at her, smile soft and gentle. The air conditioner clicks out, leaving Yaz in disorienting silence. 

“I wanted to… get her something,” Yaz begins, throat suddenly dry, “for when she wakes up. Been saving.” 

“Oh?” Maria’s voice hits a different register with interest. 

Yaz’s face burns. 

“It’s stupid, honestly,” she mumbles. “It’s so stupid. And rash. I don’t know why I did it.” 

“What did you do?” Maria asks. 

“There’s a nice shop that sells figures like that,” Yaz admits, bouncing in her seat, nervous energy fighting to get out. “A gallery. Fancy-like. Found a little red squirrel, just the size of my hand. I bought it. I just… I dunno.”

Yaz covers her face with her hands. The gallery had been large and echoey, with glass and metal everywhere. She’d got lost amongst hundred-dollar paintings and thousand-dollar sculptures, too dizzy to find her way out. She just—she’d _needed_ to, needed to say she was sorry, needed to _do_ something—and when the attendant had found her, had asked if she needed any help Yaz said yes, breathlessly, before staring down each bit of blown glass as if it held the remedy to her sleeplessness and sorrow and guilt. 

As if buying a glass squirrel would _fix_ things. 

“That’s not something to be embarrassed about,” Maria reassures her. “Where is it now?” 

“In my closet,” Yaz says. “Don't want my family to see—they'll think I'm daft. I brought it to hospital the other night, but I didn’t want to leave it with no word.” 

“Are you going to visit again?” Maria asks. 

Yaz stares at the lines of her hand, tracing the deepest crease in her palm. 

“I dunno,” she admits. “I dunno if I feel better or worse when I do.”

* * *

There’s a corner shop near the precinct that always has a fresh pot of coffee going, no matter what time it is. She’s stopped more than one shoplifter there. The owner knows Yaz by name. He slips free apples and oranges into her packages “so she gets enough vitamins”. 

They make sandwiches fresh, too, which is why Yaz goes there after counselling. Her mood is dour, body aching like she’s been running even though all she’s done is sit and _talk_. 

Embarrassing.

Exhausting.

She doesn’t want to think about anything for a while. 

She’s standing in the drinks aisle, overwhelmed with choices, when she hears an excited voice exclaim: 

“Constable!” 

She turns, confused. She’s not in uniform. 

“My constable!” 

Oh, _great_ , it’s that lady from the other night. 

The _inventor._

“Remember me?” The woman asks, shifting her basket from one arm to the other so she can lean against the fizzy water section. “From the other night?”

“Uh, yeah,” Yaz mutters, unwilling to make eye contact with the nutter. She’s had enough to deal with today.

The woman, clearly chuffed, grins up at Yaz. “I thought you would. I’m quite memorable that way.”

Yaz snorts. 

The woman beams, her smile lighting up the dim aisle. She's radiant under the flickering florescent.

“It’s weird seeing you out of uniform,” she says, her arm brushing Yaz’s when she goes to grab a bottle of Vimto. “Do you get that a lot?”

“Not usually, no,” Yaz says, flinching out of the stranger’s way. 

“Huh,” the woman says, adding another bottle, then another, to her basket. It’s so loaded with snacks that the woman has had to tuck it under her arm to bear the weight properly. “It's sort of like when you see your teacher at the shops, and you’re like— _I didn’t know you don't live at school_ , and your whole mind is just _rattled_ and you’re never quite the same after that. Hey, are you alright?”

Yaz has pulled her tan jacket tighter around herself, warding against a sudden chill. Oh, no, she’s _perceptive_. “What? Yeah.”

The woman studies her face for a moment, hazel eyes flickering. 

_This lady is proper mad and she can stare into my soul or something_ , Yaz thinks. _I need to leave._

She makes to go when the woman says: 

“My name is Jo, by the way. Jo Smith,” the woman—Jo—babbles, bouncing in her trainers. “I just moved back here from London. Well. I’ve been a few places between here and there, but that’s not important—what’s your name?” 

“I’m Yaz—Yasmin Khan.” 

Yaz shudders. It feels like she’s shared something too personal, like with every word said aloud this stranger knows more of her than she knows of herself. 

Jo, pleased with her admission, brightens. “Yasmin Khan. Yaz. Good name, _brilliant_ name, Yaz is.”

“Look, I need to get a shift on,” Yaz states, inching her way down the aisle. 

“I’m sorry, am I being weird?” Jo’s face falls slightly. “I’m a bit socially awkward. Out of my element here. New city, don’t know anyone yet. Can I buy your sandwich for you?”

“No, that’s alright,” Yaz says quickly—too quickly. “Have a nice day, madam.” 

Yaz makes a hasty exit, throwing a couple quid on the counter, her sandwich in hand. 

* * *

“Yaz,” Sergeant Sunder says, waving her over. “Look at _these_.”

He’s crouched over a plastic container with two other officers. She jogs over, adjusting her uniform. 

Inside are two handguns, sleek and dark. Yaz’s stomach flips. 

“Whose are those?” She asks, twisting her mouth. 

“Ours,” Sergeant Tobbin says, reaching out to pick one up. He holds it aloft as though it will go off any moment. “Department bought them surplus from PSNI.”

“But why?” Yaz says. “We already have guns in the armoury.”

“There’s an initiative for increased weapons training,” Tobbin replies. “They want to roll out some more high-tech stuff, the national programme for security ‘n all that. We want to be prepared for when the expert shows up.”

“Out here?” Yaz asks. “In _Sheffield_?” 

Sergeant Sunder squeezes her shoulder. 

“I don’t like it either,” he admits. “But we best get with the times.”

“I suppose,” Yaz mutters. She shuffles away, stomach churning. Her pager beeps.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” she groans, glancing up at the ceiling. 

It’s a noise complaint. 

At Jo Smith’s warehouse. 

* * *

“Yasmin Khan!" Jo cries when she opens the heavy warehouse door. "Back in uniform!" 

Yaz scowls. "We've another noise complaint from the tower block behind you, madam."

Jo deflates, blowing away a piece of hair that’s fallen over her eyes. "Seriously?" 

"What're you even doing in here?" Yaz asks, peering behind Jo into the cluttered warehouse. 

Jo perks up again. 

"Let me give you the grand tour!" She exclaims, ushering Yaz inside. Yaz resists for a moment—it’s generally not a great idea to follow crazy people into buildings—but her curiosity is piqued. 

The workshop is bright and expansive, painted white with vaulted ceilings. One wall has EMPTY WALL, DECORATE LATER pasted on in blue tape. There are several tables on wheels, each piled with plastic containers and cardboard boxes full of half-sorted materials. There’s a tackle box with assorted screws, a cone of different-sized gears all stacked up and several spools of wire. Jo is dwarfed by a lime green pegboard lined with hand tools: drills and pliers, clamps and screwdrivers of every size, and other things Yaz can’t even name. Sinister machinery is posted haphazardly around the workshop: waist-high saws and dark spindles, chrome generators and thick, sturdy plastic appliances with protruding tubes and gleaming blades. 

"Pardon my mess," Jo says sheepishly. "Weren’t expecting any company for a spell."

Yaz nearly trips over a side table with a jagged edge. The blowtorn placed precariously on top of it wobbles. Yaz straightens it, heart thudding. _It better not have an on switch._

Jo snatches the blowtorch. 

“I’ve been looking for you!” She cries, checking the safety. She searches for a space to store it. 

"What were your neighbors complaining about?" Yaz questions, redirecting the conversation. Her arms now hover at her sides, afraid to touch anything. 

Jo sets the blowtorch on a sturdy metal table, in between her welding helmet and gloves. 

“I put my compressor in a soundproof booth this afternoon…” She explains, “but it’s more like a muffling booth. Hoped it would be enough.”

She gestures to a dented metal box, which is roughly the size of an oven. 

Yaz sighs. 

"Maybe you can run your compressor during business hours only?" 

"I can do that, Constable."

Jo's smile is lopsided, cheeky in a way that makes Yaz’s breath catch. 

"What is it you actually do?" Yaz wonders, following as Jo leads her towards the back of the shop. The far wall is exposed brick, ruddy red and crumbling. In the corner is a little kitchenette, where Jo begins rummaging around. 

"I'm a mechanical engineer," Jo calls, her voice muffled from inside the cabinet. "But I do a little of this, a little of that. Robotics, design, development, troubleshootin’, inventin’, cake decoratin’. Don’t like limitations—don’t like people telling me what I can and cannot do. Can I get you sommat, Yaz?" 

"Oh, no," Yaz flushes. "That's alright."

Jo ignores her.

The cabinets are a rich royal blue—recently painted by the smell of them. There’s a cheery yellow kettle on the counter with a phone booth mug half-full of tea next to it. Yaz scratches her fingers along the formica, waiting for Jo to emerge. 

"I've got Jammie Dodgers, Hula Hoops, Monster Munch…" Jo lists, poking through a cabinet. "Aha! Custard Creams! Take a biscuit?" 

She opens the package and holds it out to Yaz, who acquiesces. 

Jo beams, taking one herself and biting it in half. She closes her eyes in delight. 

"They're my favourite," she mentions, mouth full. “Love me a Custard Cream, I do.”

Yaz stuffs the biscuit in her pocket while Jo is distracted. 

"I'm not giving you a citation, madam," Yaz states, brushing the crumbs off on her trousers. "But _please_ be more considerate of your neighbours. I'll have to write you up next time."

"Yasmin Khan," Jo proclaims. "You are a credit to the constabulary! I hope your department values you properly! Citations are _rubbish_."

Yaz manages a half-smile. Jo offers her another biscuit, which she politely refuses. She makes her exit shortly after, despite Jo’s offer of a “fortifying cuppa for her journey”. 

Her chest aches, unsettled somehow, pulled by Jo's strange magnetism. 

Does she actually want to stay? 

Somehow she does—between Jo’s chaotic prattling and her infectious enthusiasm—Yaz feels less mopey than she’s felt in months. 

Jo Smith is a laugh. An absolute nutter, but a laugh. 

Is it weird that Yaz kind of wants to see her again?

Even if it’ll probably just be to give her a citation, since Jo seems determined to be a public nuisance and run motors at all hours of the night. 

When Yaz finds the Custard Cream in her pocket hours later, she nearly throws it away. She runs her thumb over the bevelled edge before shrugging and twisting it open so she can lick the cream out the centre.

Why let a gift go to waste? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like reviews! If you'd like to let me know how I did, I'd be super thrilled!


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